Chapter 7 Astrid #3
“Sure, the guy’s built like a battering ram and obviously well trained and well disciplined, but”—Jessa holds up a finger at Astrid—“his bulk could also be a disadvantage. You’re fast, Astrid, you’re small—”
Astrid scoffs. “I am not small, Jess, and glad of it.”
“Compared to him you are, and,” she continues, “you have homemade missiles, meaning you don’t have to get near him to kill him.”
DO YOU THINK THE SAME APPLIES TO ME, OH WISE ONE? THAT MY DIMINUTIVE STATURE WILL BE AN ADVANTAGE AGAINST THAT THUNDER LIZARD?
“I’m not gonna bite, pussy cat, because frankly, I think you’re both taking this remarkably well,” Jessa says.
“And if I were you, I’d be shit scared.” Astrid takes a shuddering breath.
She is shit scared, and the nausea’s reared its head again at the thought of Bastet in that arena.
“But Astrid’s smart. If anyone can figure out how to beat that prince and his dragon, then it’s her. ”
Astrid snorts. “Sure, because I’ll figure it out when four hundred years’ worth of my ancestors haven’t.”
HOW DID THE LAST WITCH WHO WON DEFEAT A DRAGON? Bastet sounds optimistic, which is not a personality trait of his. Astrid hates to dispel him of it.
“The witch’s opponent didn’t have a dragon in that case, and the dragon heir in question was a Sensor, a weak one—probably why he never went to Isla Draka to attempt to bond a dragon,” Astrid says. “He was mauled to death by the familiar, a particularly brutal wolverine.”
I SEE, says Bastet. THE ONLY THING I HAVE EVER MANAGED TO MAUL IS A DORMOUSE.
Jessa laughs, but Gwen scolds him, “This is serious.”
AND I AM SERIOUS AS DEATH WHEN IT COMES TO THE LIFE OF MY SOUL-BONDED. HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL KNOWING I CAN BE OF NO MEANINGFUL HELP TO HER?
Her mother purses her lips in response, because what can she say? She’s been thinking the exact same thing. Astrid lifts Bastet onto her shoulder, where he burrows into her collar.
“As you said yourself, without you, I’d be miserable.” He preens in response. “When will they hold the welcome feast?” Astrid asks. She’s really hoping it won’t be this evening—she’s feeling far too fragile. She fiddles with the empty tincture bottle in her pocket.
“Tomorrow night. The Blood Binding will be the morning after,” her mum answers.
“I’d feel much better if they were bound before the feast,” Jessa says.
“They won’t try anything there, not so blatantly.”
Astrid and Jessa lock eyes. After what she just witnessed, Astrid isn’t so sure.
The carriage slows and Jessa peers out the window. “We’re here.”
Astrid strains her neck to look past Jessa to The Rok’s battlements, the crenelated structure punctuated by more of those huge stone perches.
The carriage is quickly ushered through the gates before driving up a winding gravel path leading to a turning circle directly in front of the burnt-orange castle.
It’s much larger than Fort Isfjell, larger even than the Moon Palace, with countless spires and towers and wide balconies, and it sprawls up the side of the sandstone cliffs, part of it merging with them so it blends with the rock.
Astrid steps out of the carriage, closing her cloak around her with Bastet once again tucked inside.
The gardens are vast—lush, even—blooming with life and color she’s not seen for years, not in the permanent winter of the mountains.
Deciduous trees, crowns full and green; pink orchids; red and orange hibiscus; and eucalyptus that border the white pebbled path.
How have they managed to nurture this pocket of life in this arid city?
It’s a treasure trove for a potion brewer.
“That way”—her mum points west to where the grounds wrap around the far side of the castle—“is where the arena is. And it’s where I’d like you to train when you can.
Get to know it, get used to it.” Astrid nods.
That makes sense—it’s one of the variables she can actually control.
“And that way is the coast.” She points east to where the grounds stop at a cliff edge.
“It’s a two-hundred-meter drop, and the only way in or out from there is by dragon.
I probably don’t need to warn you that it would be wise to avoid it. ” Lest someone push Astrid off.
They follow their escort of guards to the main entrance: an obnoxious set of ornately decorated double doors big enough to admit a small dragon.
Astrid pauses briefly, takes a deep breath, then steps over the threshold onto a floor of gold-veined black marble, polished so highly that she can see her reflection in it.
Cool air relieves her from the oppressive heat, though the relief is short-lived as the realization hits her.
The thriving gardens, the cooling system—it makes sense now.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” Jessa points out. “I can hear you.”
Astrid shoots Jessa a look. “Do you know how much Vitalas they must be using? Wasting it on luxuries like air-conditioning when we can’t even get enough ambient magic to keep the Blight at bay.”
“What do you expect? They rely on Vitalas for energy. It’s not as if they have any other resources, like us.”
“Doesn’t mean they have to use it like this.”
“Well, what else are they going to use? They didn’t bother investing in other renewable energies, the arrogant bastards, not when they have their infinite source of energy that they think they’ll never lose,” Jessa murmurs.
“Come on, you know the ambient magic we need is not the same as this.” She waves a hand about.
“I know it’s not the same,” Astrid hisses.
The Heart’s ambient magic brings balance to the natural world and is by its very nature available to everyone—or should be, until it just stopped—and Vitalas is what the continents fight for: the access to convert the Heart’s magic into energy, into electricity.
“Doesn’t it piss you off, though? The blatant use of the Heart this way, when we’re in desperate need?
Like they’re rubbing in our faces that the Heart is fine—they’re just making sure we no longer feel the benefit of it. ”
“I agree, but let’s not talk about it here. We’re surrounded.”
Astrid attempts to relax her jaw and takes in the cavernous entrance hall—a hive of activity as servants go about their duties, and courtiers accidentally on purpose find themselves there to get a look at the witches.
Astrid ignores them, her eyes landing instead on the man standing directly in front of her, mere inches away. She flinches back.
Prince Zryan. How in all Hel did he get here? He must have flown back, but she didn’t see the dragon. And why is he standing so close?
The entire hall falls quiet. Courtiers find somewhere else to be, servants, too; and the Dreki all stand straighter, angling toward him, as if wanting to attract his notice. But he only has eyes for Astrid; and this close she can see the silver in them, bright as a knife.
“Princess.” His voice is full-bodied; the kind of voice you can feel as well as hear. “Welcome to my home.”
He delivers the words without a hint of sincerity. He may as well be welcoming her to a tomb. Which it is, really, isn’t it? This castle is a glorified tomb. Because his home is the last place she’ll ever see. The prince will make sure of that when he kills her.